


Stopped

by VS_Brewster



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M, Masturbation, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-11
Updated: 2019-04-13
Packaged: 2020-01-11 19:15:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,537
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18430379
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VS_Brewster/pseuds/VS_Brewster
Summary: Forced into close quarters, Snape notices when Hermione holds her breath.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I don't own anything.

It always came back to the Shrieking Shack.  Severus was beginning to lose count of how many times he had almost lost his life in the barely standing building.  And here he was again, not exactly risking his life, but close to.

They had spread out flattened cardboard boxes to make things a bit easier, but they did almost nothing to cushion his groaning back.  Magic could do many things, but easing the ravages of old age was a difficult one to pull off, given their already limited resources. He refused to complain. If she didn’t, neither would he.

His companion lay close by. It was January and unsafe to light fires. Hermione had done what she could with Arithmancy, and his camping stove was on most of the day, but that didn’t help much as frost crept over the boards patched haphazardly over broken windows. Their wands were being monitored. All of the old Order’s wands were being monitored. The moment they cast so much as a Scourgify, Aurors would be down on them – that was if they were lucky. So they lay within touching distance in a half-hearted hope they might share body heat, without the embarrassment of actually sharing body heat.

Normally it didn’t matter. Severus was out like a light the moment his head touched cardboard. But distilling Dittany allowed for no let-up, and five hours crouched over a cauldron was taking its toll.

Perhaps he had fallen asleep. Or perhaps he was teetering on the edge. Either way, he was sure he wouldn’t have noticed if she hadn’t gone so still. It was a strange mark of having been in this kind of situation for far too long, but he took notice when Granger stopped breathing.

He opened his eyes. The moon must be full. Silvery light snaked between the boards, enough to cast the room in shades of grey. Her eyes were shut, her body strangely still. And then that held breath released, long and slow.  A couple more breaths hitched ever so slightly.  Severus narrowed his eyes. His gaze swept down over the cocoon  of Granger’s sleeping bag. She was holding herself stiffly, laying on her back with her arms tight at her sides.

And in a moment she seemed to melt, air whispering from between her lips, her body going limp again.  He still wouldn’t have been quite sure if she didn’t then bring her hand up, slipping two fingers into her mouth. There was a scent on the air at once painfully familiar and strangely exotic; one he had not smelled for longer than he would care to acknowledge.

His body made its automatic response, heat tingling through him, blood rising to the surface. It would be the same for anyone; with anyone. It had nothing to do with Granger herself.

She was perfectly quiet again. Her mouth made no noise, doing whatever it was doing to those two fingers.

_Tongue sliding between them, tasting, sucking…_

It was then that Hermione opened her eyes. She saw him seeing her. Both of them breathed. Breathed again. Her fingers slid from her mouth, saliva or _something_ catching the dim light, before the hand vanished back into her sleeping bag. He wished he could read her expression, but he had spent the last two weeks trying his best to avoid her, apparently succeeding despite their close quarters.  Was that a smile? It was gone before he would be sure, and she turned her head away, shifting into sleep.

Severus lay awake a little longer. The reflex to over-analyse was an occupational hazard of being a decent spy. He was, of course, a spy no longer, but old habits die hard.

 

After more than several minutes’ internal debate, Severus had determined that, yes she had; and, so what? They were both adults. God knows, these things had happened often enough in school dormitories. Why shouldn’t she? No one could blame her for releasing the tension.

Severus adjusted himself – his mind attempted to pick at why this brief moment of voyeurism had had quite such a strong effect on him, but he brushed it away – and closed his eyes. But it was a long time before sleep came.

*

These were the ways in which they filled their days.

Severus had a small camp stove and a rationed supply of gas cannisters. He would brew what he could, mostly first aid potions, or those for severe trauma. They were the ones most likely to be used. One of his many personal ticks now was that he always carried Essence of Dittany – and pressed a vial on to anyone else if he could.  It had, after all, saved his life on this very spot.  Severus liked to set up his stove on his own blood stain. It made Granger wrinkle her nose, but it’s as well to remember one’s mortality, and one’s determination to survive.

She did something with Arithmancy.  He knew that he should know more than that, but their close quarters had always made him uncomfortable. He knew it was for a reason, but that didn’t make things different. He had been her teacher, she had saved his life. There was a debt owed, and Severus hated it.  She spent the days with her head in a book, her little beaded bag producing an apparently never-ending supply. She would trace numbers in notebooks, sometimes on the ground. It was thanks to the Arithmantic wards that their presence was largely guarded.  Only their contact in Hogwarts actually knew where they were.

Apart from that, they waited.

*

The following day passed no differently to any other. Severus applied a balm to his back in the morning, trying to ease away the discomfort of another night on the floor. Granger primly turned her back, allowing him the privacy to deal with being old unobserved.  He had offered her some of the balm one of the first mornings. Her smile hadn’t been exactly mocking as she refused, but he hadn’t offered again. _Fine. Let her suffer, then._

Severus brewed in his little cauldron. Hermione read and scribbled. No footsteps came from the tunnel.

It wasn’t until they unrolled the sleeping bags that Severus realised how preoccupied his mind had become with the brief intimacy of last night. He lay on his side facing her, as he always did. He closed his eyes. He matched her slow, steady breath. He pretended.

After a surprisingly short time, he heard her shift. Had it been this way every night? Had she barely waited for him to fall asleep before…

The light wasn’t as good as the previous night, but that just meant Severus could watch without her noticing. Not that she seemed wary of him, anyway. Her eyes remained closed, her breathing shallow and sleepy. But her arm shifted inside the sleeping bag, skimming against the nylon, and there was an unmistakable wriggle of her hips.

Severus himself had chosen to leave his hand inside his sleeping bag instead of pillowing it beneath his head. Fingertips brushed the hardness in his underwear, and he ground his teeth, consciously working to keep his breathing steady. How did she do it? He was certain of what she was doing, but her breathing remained utterly normal. He studied the sleeping bag for any sign of movement. Was that a movement, where her groin must be? A rhythmic shift? Or was he seeing what he wanted to see?

Studying her face was more interesting. The swift peak of her tongue swiping over her lips, leaving them parted. He had to listen closely, but surely that was her breath catching.

The sound of a wet slide caught his own breath. He curled his fingers along his own hardness again, making his cock jerk. It took willpower to keep still, to keep breathing, to keep watching her. A wet catch again. His mind cruelly filled in the gaps, filled his imagination with a hot, wet slit, twitching and needy, desperate for…

She held her breath again, and when his gaze returned to her face he could swear that her eyes were open, that she was looking right at him. A short, stuttered out breath as her body stiffened, an almost imperceptible movement at her groin. When she breathed in again it was a deep gasp for air and a whispered, hoarse out breath.

Severus couldn’t remember the last time his cock had been so hard.

He saw her blink. So she was watching him. Looking at him while she got herself off. As her body loosened she didn’t bring her fingers to her mouth this time, but he saw a gesture that might be wiping them. She blinked again, and Severus had the distinct feeling she was waiting for his move.

His options were limited. What he wanted to do was—

_Spread her legs and slide home, see if she can stay so calm and quiet when my cock’s inside her—_

Take himself to another room and wank like his life depended on it. They only used this room. If he left, it would be obvious what he was going to do. Something within Severus, some last controlling piece of the bastard he had always been, wouldn’t let him do that; wouldn’t let her know just how aroused he was by the merest hint of a masturbating woman.

He rolled away from her. She might be happy to wank out in the open where anyone could watch her, but if Severus were to be degraded into tugging himself off over an ex-student he was damn well going to have some privacy. He also waited until her breathing evened, though she’d proved to be a master at faking sleep. He contented himself with illicit strokes along his shaft while he waited, meaning that when he finally took himself in hand it took only a few tugs before his own breath stopped, and he bit down hard on his lip to keep quiet. Surely it hadn’t been that long since he’d last taken himself in hand, but he came hard enough that colours bloomed behind his closed eyelids.

Left with an unpleasant mess and no way to covertly clean it up, Severus settled down for a sticky, uncomfortable night’s sleep.


	2. Chapter 2

Severus only has two gas cannisters left. Granger says they are also running low on food. They hadn’t expected to be stuck here this long, but neither of them is surprised. They have a back-up plan – and back-up plans for back-up plans. This operation is nothing if not well-organised, but considering who’s involved that’s hardly surprising.

Granger takes a leather carry case from the beaded bag and opens it to reveal four vials of Polyjuice, of varying colour and consistency.  “Who goes?” she asks.

I’m too proud to let on that sleeping on my wrong side has left me creaking even more than usual. A walk into Hogsmeade could make things better.  Three hours being someone else could make it better. Or it could make it worse.

“Rock, Paper, Scissors?” She asks, and is grinning when she looks up at me. Just for a moment, she has forgotten who she is with. She doesn’t see one of her friends – the gormless freckled face or the glasses and scar. The smile slides from her face and I’m almost sorry. But then, she is not who I would have chosen, either. I would always choose to do this alone.

“You go.” I would like to think I’m being charitable. She must be going stir crazy. But I could also use some solitude.

Granger doesn’t need telling twice. She chooses a vial without lingering on the decision, uncorks and swallows. I turn towards my miniature potion stores. She doesn’t need a witness and who knows who she’s going to come out as.

“I’ll need something to sell,” says a deep voice behind me, and I feel a sliver of guilt. Transforming across gender lines isn’t anyone’s idea of a picnic.

I pick out a couple of more basic potions. When I turn to face her again, she is checking through some documents. I point to one of the visas, “That one.” Mid-twenties, dark hair, handsome but with no chin to speak of. ‘Emlyn Evans’ I read upside down. His lineage doesn’t look like any kind of pedigree, but it’s there and that’s all that matters.

She folds Emlyn’s papers and stuffs them in an inside pocket. She stands and sighs. While we both tend towards baggy robes, hers are now too short. “May I—”

I’m already holding out my only other set of robes.

The scuffle and faff is as short as possible – she’s now working on a timer – and before long she’s slipped out of the shack. I press an eye to a gap in the boards to watch her stride up the path and over the hill towards Hogsmeade. It dawns on me too late that the food will be easy enough, but where is she going to find gas cannisters for a camping stove?

*

I’m smoking a rare cigarette when she returns. She’s made good time, there’s at least a half hour left on the Polyjuice. I take a last long drag as I watch her tread more carefully on the path back down. There’s been a light snowfall and the going is steep.

Acrid smoke fills my lungs, swirls in my mouth, before I blow long and slow out through my nose. I think of parties where I would catch my reflection in a mirror or some other reflective surface and admire the dragon-like quality, imagine it made me look mysterious. Merlin, I was an idiot when I was young. Loud parties with music that sounded like screaming and pureblood twats who thought I was no one. The more they despised me, the more determined I was to prove myself. Idiot that I was, I didn’t realise that the moment I became indispensable there would be no backing out again. Fool.

I smudge the cigarette against one of the window boards, careful, knowing there are still a good couple of drags left in it. My cigarette supply is limited, and there’s no way I’m wasting Polyjuice on a fag run.

“I got everything,” she announces in a baritone when she ducks back inside. Her voice is too loud. It’s grown used to being outside, forgotten that we are a secret. She notices too, and I see a light dim in her eyes. “Five cannisters, is that alright? And enough food for another week. It can’t be more than that?”

“Five is adequate,” I tell her, marvelling that she got any at all, but not about to ask how.

Her male mouth is grinning. This body is much too charming. “There was a bit of cash left over, so I got…” She holds up a bottle of Old Ogden’s.

“Bad idea,” is all I mutter before stalking back upstairs. That’s an understatement. It’s an appalling idea. That’s all we need is to be summoned down the tunnel half-cut. And at the same time I feel the itch in me and know I won’t refuse a dram or five.

*

We only have the chipped tea cups Granger nicked from Grimauld Place. Each time I hold one I remember the frantic clearing of the place while the wards still held. I was focused on ingredients, incriminating information, intelligence. Granger was focused on cooking utensils, bedding, board games. At the time I sneered at what a useless person she was — how could a woman so bright be so utterly oblivious at a time like that? Each time I am grateful the I can drink from a cup, or for having an actual pillow to sleep on; each time an argument is diffused by pulling out the travel chess board, I curse her and thank her in equal measure.

She’s drunk two cups for each one of mine. She is a mellow drunk. I don’t know what I had expected. Raucous laughter or tears. Not companionable silence, broken by occasional remembrances.

“One time, when we were out camping…”

This is her euphemism for the year they spent hunting Horcruxes and hiding from Death Eaters. We all do it. We all have our own shorthand.

“Ron was wearing the locket. It affected him so badly, we’d always be on eggshells. Doing anything to keep him calm, try and make him happy. We’d kept this bottle of Butterbeer for weeks. Harry had lifted it from a Ministry café when we were staking it out.”

The idea of the former golden boy stealing anything brings about strange feelings. I am at once proud, amazed, surprised, vindicated. It’s such a small delinquency to bring about such a flood of emotion.

“It felt like we’d been living off tea made from twigs for days. We gave it to Ron and he drank the whole thing. I think it was just gone before he’d thought to ask if there was more for us, or if we wanted some.”

She smiles fondly. My sentiments are not so nostalgic. Rare treats should be sipped and savoured, stretched for as long as possible, and shared if sharing is a luxury of the moment. But then, Weasley was a green boy unused to hardship. I have been at war all my life. A lifetime to learn the rules.

“A charming anecdote,” I say, because she expects me to say something, and expects me further to say something fitting. She would not talk about her friends if she didn’t expect me to treat them the way I have always treated them.

“Maybe you had to be there.”

She offers me another dram. I cover my tea cup, in the interest of future nights when things will have gone terribly and the need for a drink is genuine. “Save it,” I say, hoping she’ll take the hint. There’s still half a bottle. That’s enough for one of us to get smashed, should the situation arise where there is suddenly only one of us. It’s happened before, and it doesn’t matter whether you liked your companion or not. A loss is a loss.

The bottle is corked and carefully placed into the beaded bag, which is always packed at night in case we have to leave quickly. We lay out the sleeping bags. The whisky has at least helped me back. The muscles feel warm and soft for once.

She lies on her side facing me as I settle. “Come a little closer,” she urges. “For warmth.”

“Even firewhisky lowers body temperature. I’m not surprised you’re cold.” Still, I shuffle a little closer.

Apparently not enough.

She pulls herself along the floor until we are side by side. I can smell the alcohol on her, and the dish soap we both use to wash. Her breath mists and hangs in the air, and I think of that young man who spent days chain smoking alone to learn to blow smoke rings. I want to feel like there is an innocence she has not lost, but it would be a lie. She wears it well, but she’s seen just as much pain as I.

Her face is turned in towards me. In the meagre light I can see her eyes looking up at me. Her gaze is frank and appealing. I know what she’s after and, to a certain extent, I knew that this would be the next step. There’s an urging to give in within me. It would be easy now to wrap an arm around her and give her what she thinks she wants. The jaded part of me would like that very much.

But there is a stronger part that understands I am still the more experienced. She is not a child, but in this situation there is an obligation upon me to be the adult.

“I know what you’re thinking and it’s a bad idea,” I say frankly. My voice is calm – calmer than my raised heartbeat, my heightened awareness of her, the slow but steady interest waking up my cock.

She drops her eyes and presses a little closer. “Maybe I want to try a bad idea for once.”

I hate her in that moment. As seems to be the ruling pattern of my life, she’s put me in a situation that I can’t win.

Before I can say anything sensible, her lips are on mine. Too warm, too soft. She’s tentative. She makes the moves but I don’t follow — though I do watch her and record it all for future fantasies. The closeness of her, the silk of her hair, her breath against my skin.

I pull back just slightly, just enough to break the burgeoning possibility of something happening. Her eyes have fallen closed, and when she opens them she seems confused. “I thought you wanted—”

“Go to sleep.” It’s the teacher voice, the one that brooks no contradiction, and it feels utterly inappropriate in this situation.

She holds eye contact for a full second before rolling onto her back. She looks angry. Good. Angry I can handle.

I pull my sleeping bag up over my head and let the gentle spin of the room rock me to sleep.


End file.
